But I Beneath a Rougher Sea
by Sirabella
Summary: James Hathaway has passed a large chunk of his partnership with Lewis in alternately confronting, avoiding and listening to the pain of his boss' personal tragedy. But can their relationship cope now that the shoe is on the other foot?
1. Chapter 1

There was no indication that the day would be anything other than soporifically ordinary. No case meant no dead people, of course, which was always good. But for Hathaway, it also meant a whole day spent doing paperwork in the same room with a grumpy DI Lewis. The superintendent, when she happened to catch Lewis on days like these, always maintained a tolerantly amused manner which maddened Lewis and, consequently, frightened the hell out of Hathaway. When Lewis couldn't grouse in Innocent's face, he did it in Hathaway's, and James was sick of bearing not only his own but also Innocent's fair share of Lewis' irritation. It only made it worse to think longingly of the clue-prospecting and pub-crawling murder inquiries that always switched that light on inside his boss, the one that, in turn, switched on that little voice in Hathaway's head that whispered to him that he was in the presence of greatness and should just sit back and enjoy the show. Basking in his governor's reflected glow, knowing he'd been of invaluable assistance along the way… That feeling made this prison of staples and paper-cuts almost bearable.

Except for the fact that Lewis hadn't said a word to him in over two hours. James was no chatty Cathy, but this grating silence was slowly overwhelming the limits of his nervous system. He'd even welcome the occasional grouse right about now, but the bits of Lewis he could see behind and between the stacks of paper did not look accommodating.

"Going for a smoke," he mumbled, lifting his jacket off the back of his chair just as the cell in the pocket went off with an electronic whine that jarred both of them. Not looking up, he apologized quickly and flipped it open. "Hathaway."

Eerie silence descended once more on the office, but as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line, James' world blurred into fractured beams of colored light and far-away sounds until he finally managed to tumble back down into his desk chair. Lewis was looking over with puzzled concern, but Hathaway had given up any notion of escaping and taking the call in private. He couldn't move. Eventually, his mouth opened, and a voice emerged he'd never have recognized as his own. "So you know exactly what happened. Mum, what did he actually say?" "Well, what makes you think it isn't that simple?" "One, Hertfordshire is not my jurisdiction; two, there is nothing to investigate—no, there isn't, Mum—and three, no, I will not waste time plodding 'round like some half-baked conspiracy theorist when Jess needs me." "I'll see you there. Goodbye, Mother."

A beat. Two. His heart stuttered back into rhythm, and then, with the anguished scream of a wounded animal, he drew back his arm and launched the phone at the wall. It shattered on the door frame, bits of plastic and metal sliding out into the hallway. Lewis sprang up out of his chair as if he'd been fired from a gun barrel, whereas Hathaway sank back down into his; unless Innocent were lurking somewhere in the corridor, this was the safest place to let off steam, and he already felt a bit lighter. Someone was calling his name…? Oh. "Sorry?"

Lewis was suddenly right there, leaning up against the side of Hathaway's desk. "Jim, for God's sake. I said: what is it? What's 'appened?"

Could he actually say it out loud? No, not yet. "I need a few days' leave, sir. Family stuff." He met his partner's eyes, begging him to understand why he was being so evasive. Happily, Lewis seemed to understand.

"See yeh when yeh get back, then." He reached out and planted a hand on Hathaway's shoulder, fixing him to the here and now. Port in the storm, Hathaway thought. No surprise there. One more reason why he didn't want to go. He needed this so badly. But it wasn't his turn yet; right now, he had to be there for his little sister.


	2. Chapter 2

His mother fell on his neck, of course, as soon as she saw him, still rambling on about his failure to "investigate" the bus driver who had not been able to stop in time when Jess had suddenly emerged from between two parked cars. Daft girl. Texting or something, probably, and not paying attention. His anger didn't stop him from racing to her room, though, sometimes barely missing a nurse or an orderly in his hazy slalom of undiluted terror.

Not that he hadn't known that this was a collection of events completely lacking in uncertainties. No room for fear _or_ hope, actually. In twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight if she were lucky, her body would give out, and his sister, his only sibling, his ward and champion, would slip from the world as if she'd never existed. He couldn't think about that. Not even close.

He was reminded, though, when he saw her face. Her usually milk-white skin was mottled in various shades of blue and purple, and the rest of her was hidden away behind bandages and casts. He wondered idly which part would steal her life away, and when.

She could barely speak, and she swam in and out of consciousness, but he never left, never stopped talking to her. His mother urged him to rest, or at least eat, but he never so much as stepped out for a smoke or to go to the loo. When Jess called him on it – even considering her forays in and out of the human plane, she'd noticed his unfailing presence – he simply said he didn't have anywhere else he needed to be. She asked him half-jokingly how she was supposed to find the will to hang on if he was denying himself cigs _and_ pints until she buggered off this mortal coil. He smiled and crawled carefully up next to her, letting his tears fall unnoticed on the pillow behind her.

~--~--~--~

It was amazing what four days could do. For the first time, James Hathaway truly believed that seven days could have carried the creation of a universe, because his had been blown to atoms in just over 92 hours. He'd been whispering with her, foreheads touching like a refuge of their childhood selves, when it happened: her eyes had drifted closed, the machines had flat-lined, and suddenly the woman who was his sister was gone. Left on the bed next to him was only a hollow shell.

He hadn't known what else to do except retreat swiftly home. He felt like dirt for abandoning his mother now, but he couldn't see her, couldn't deal with her wild grief and her illogical mental connections, couldn't manage anything except breathing and moving. He eventually called in to the office, just once, to tell Innocent he wasn't coming back right away. She wanted a definite return date, of course, but she was compassionate and unusually patient with him. He hung up as soon as it was no longer rude to do so.

He wanted Lewis, with his bluntness, his reliability, his steadiness; but they'd had such a shaky time of it, trying to find a middle ground for discretion in their personal lives, that something like this hanging in the air would be the king of 800-pound gorillas in the room. And dealing with it… His grief was banked down in him, like a hot oven warning him not to touch. If he did, that oven would melt him down for scrap, and, well, breaking in front of a man he so deeply respected was his dictionary definition of rock bottom.

On the other hand, he thought, listening to the message he'd finally noticed blinking at him on his voicemail screen, it seemed that he didn't have any choice in the matter. Innocent had told Lewis that Hathaway was back, and the man was coming 'round that evening "whether it was convenient or not." That brought nearly forgotten emotions like amusement and affection pouring back into him, just for an instant.

The next instant brought the realization that his place currently resembled nothing so much as a cross between the city dump and the remains of several dozen student raves. Two hours saw the house undergo a scouring so thorough the floorboards barely survived it. He debated whether or not to hide the pictures of Jess that were scattered throughout several rooms but decided against it. After all, it wasn't Jess he wanted to hide; it was the mess she'd left behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't remember ever lying down for a nap, but, nevertheless, here he was on the sofa, being buzzed awake by the insistent doorbell. He ascended rather too quickly; the former contents of all the bottles he'd chucked out earlier were still out for a bit of a swim in his bloodstream, and combined with the miniscule amounts of sleep and food he'd met with recently, they weren't doing him any favors. But the doorbell was still buzzing, and he had to go and answer it, and if he hurled on Lewis' shoes, he'd never live it down if he survived to a hundred and fifty.

The look he got from Lewis when the door swung aside was pained but unsurprised. Hathaway flinched; something between them had shifted with that one glance, and he could see from the uneasy wonder in Lewis' expression that he felt it, too. Naturally, though, the man didn't dwell on it; he only held up the carton of beers in his hand, tipped his head toward the living room and asked: "Hair of the dog?"

Hathaway nodded and let him in, smirking a bit wearily. He recognized the game but was far too emotionally and physically exhausted to play it. He knew that Lewis thought him a bit young – for a cop, for a confidant, for a friend, really – and they usually exaggerated this disparity into a private joke, but just now it was stinging Hathaway with a vengeance. His sister was gone, his mother was in no state to think of anyone but herself, and he could barely remember having a father. If Lewis tried to shrug this off as just another boys' night, James cringed to himself, he might just lose it completely.

They sat down and broke open the beers. Hathaway was even less interested than usual in small talk, and for a few minutes, he simply sat and drank as if Lewis weren't there. Lewis, on the other hand, wasn't allowing the awkwardness. He crossed to the shelf and gently lifted one of the photos of Jess, examining it as if her face would tell him what she was and who she'd been to Hathaway. "Sweet lass," he said finally. "Brave, I think. She looks as if she could hear the whole world cheerin' 'er on."

"So it did. Except for the bloody great bus that stopped her in her tracks." James winced at himself. "Sorry."

Lewis shrugged a bit and put the photograph down. "Don't apologize to me. If I were worried about gettin' me feelings hurt, you'd still be passed out on your couch in a house with no booze."

James wondered why he'd wished for Lewis and his nonexistent tact. His hand shook as he replaced his drink on the coffee table. "Yeah, thanks for the beer, it's just what I wanted." He stood up to lead Lewis to the door. "Now that you've checked up on me, you'll want to get on home. Early day tomorrow, isn't it?"

Receiving no answer, James turned around. Lewis hadn't moved, and when he spoke, his airy tone was fooling nobody. "Forgotten who you're speaking to, 'ave yeh?"

Defeated, James sank back into the sofa cushions. "No, unfortunately not."

"Jim, look at me." Some part of Hathaway that was still hoping for something he couldn't name pushed his gaze up to Lewis' face. "I didn't come 'ere to make things worse for you. If you want me to leave, I will, but—"

"No." It sounded a lot more desperate than he would have liked, but at least he'd managed to get it out over his clamoring pride. "No. I just…"

Lewis nodded softly. "You can barely see which way is up, and I shove meself in 'ere with a flock of bitter like it's high rugby season."

James smiled reflexively. "Yeah. Something like that."

"Sorry. It's different, y' know. I was so sure I knew what I was doing, but everyone's different."

James froze. That was it, of course. He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it. This new ground beneath them, it was Val, and it was Jess, and it nearly broke him to think that Lewis had felt like this for going on five years, some people caring but nobody understanding. Hathaway put the beer down and clasped his hands in his lap. "Do you… do you want to hear about her?"

"Anythin' you want to tell me."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I just remembered that it's a convention - if not a rule - around here to put disclaimers in to remind people that you don't own the material. (Yeah, like I'd be writing fanfiction with it if I did.) I also wanted to add (in case you didn't know) that I completely made up all of Hathaway's family backstory that I'm using here; none of it is actually from the series. And thanks so much to indianpipe, my first reviewer, and also to xcourtniex, robby1925, native67 and doctorjay for such nice compliments. May other readers follow in your footsteps!

~--~--~--~--~--~--~--~

"The funny thing is, we weren't that close, for a while, growing up. Dad walked out when I was about four, and Jess was just a baby. So Mum had to work and raise both of us... To this day, I don't know how she did it. But what do kids know about those things? All they know is: Mum's not around. So we both figured, well, maybe make some noise and she'll come running. It was an all-out war for five minutes of her time, here and there. To me, Jess was the cute one, the baby, and a girl to boot, so, of course, Mum liked her best. To Jess, I was the older brother who got all the praise for taking care of things, for being Mum's right-hand man, which was a total fiction because I was about five when she started saying it." James' grin felt stiff and stretched on his face, and it didn't seem to be working on Lewis, anyway, so he gave it up and took another swig of beer.

"The war lasted until Jess started school. I know it'll come as a bit of a shock to you, but I wasn't exactly one of the popular crowd. Being a yard taller than the other boys and about half as wide, not to mention committing that cardinal sin, enjoying school... well, it doesn't exactly scream cool, does it? Jess, on the other hand, was queen of her castle, but since she loved all her little half-pint subjects, it never spoiled her. Gave her plenty of balls, though, so... she saw the way the other kids treated me, and one day, in the morning break, she gave my whole form the talking-to of the century. It was priceless. Little blond, curly-headed princess who barely came up to anyone's knees scolding a bunch of rough-faced, sporty goons about being nice to her big brother. I think there might also have been something in there about kindness to underlings... She didn't know the words 'noblesse oblige,' but she was very familiar with the concept."

"Wish I'd seen that." Lewis laughed, imagining the look on boy-James' scrawny face when his baby sister fearlessly confronted a bunch of burly louts he'd taken to avoiding like the plague.

James seemed to know where his partner's mind had gone; he smiled at the memory. "Yes, I was pretty shocked, to say the least. But the funny thing was, even to me at the time, that they did leave me alone. I imagine none of them felt like confessing to the headmaster, or their parents, that they'd taught a five-year-old girl a lesson she'd never forget. Jess, of course, only saw her triumph over the enemy, and we were inseparable after that. Might have been different if I'd had any other friends, but as it was, we looked out for each other. She was the big cheese at school, and at home, I helped my mum look after her so that Jess would stop feeling passed over. It was hard on both of us when I changed schools, but we compared notes on almost everything; we were desperate to stay up to date on each other's lives. I've always told her everything - school, jobs, girlfriends, music, and from what I can tell, she didn't leave much out, either. All except one: I never told her why I left the seminary."

The room was silent for several minutes. Neither of them had any clue what should follow this admission. Lewis was having some trouble comprehending everything it meant, especially now after a couple of beers, and he could see Hathaway was just as overwhelmed as he was. He only had one clear thought, and he said it. "Right, well, I can see this couch and I are goin' to be great friends. Let me just pop back to mine and grab a toothbrush and things."

"Don't be ridiculous," James snapped. "I'm not trapping you in this pit I've been wallowing in for God knows how long _and_ inflicting this relic of my student days on that back of yours into the bargain. I'll kip on your sofa."

"Suits me," Lewis answered, amused. No one had ever invited themselves onto his couch before. "I have got a spare bedroom, though, in case you change your mind."

James laughed, heaved a coaster at him and missed. "Pillock." His brow scrunched up in thought. "Sir."


	5. Chapter 5

Lewis sat at his desk, his mind doing cartwheels even as his head was about ready to drop from the hand propping it up. He was completely done for; only with the aid of ungodly amounts of coffee had he managed to haul himself out into the daylight like some kind of hung-over vampire and into the office. He'd slept for approximately two hours the night before, non-consecutive. Hathaway's hellish nightmares had kept both of them awake and on edge for the best part of the night. There was nothing for it, though, he admitted to himself; he was keeping that lad with him, under house arrest if necessary, until… Until what, exactly? He didn't really know. Until this twisting, grating knot of fear in his chest loosened enough that he could let him go in good conscience.

Hathaway was good at keeping himself together, so bloody good at hiding, it physically nauseated Lewis to think of all the pain he wasn't seeing. The problem was, they were both so damn scared of diving in. Lewis was not giving up until he'd found a way, though; if he had to weigh James' sanity against the placid connection they'd decided to use for a friendship, he didn't have to think twice. It was just… he couldn't bear the idea of doing more harm than good, so he had to find a way to make James lose it and feel safe doing so.

As if waiting for a convenient break in his thoughts, the chief super's knock sounded briefly on his door as she walked in. "Morning rounds, ma'am?"

She raised an eyebrow at him and smiled grimly, taking a seat across from him in Hathaway's chair. "Nothing so benign. I'm checking up on you."

"Alright, well, to answer the questions you haven't asked yet: no idea when Hathaway can come back, but not soon, and no, I'm not up to investigating anythin' right now, let alone with somebody else's sergeant."

"You forgot one," she answered gently. "Are you all right? Both of you, I mean."

"No, I don't think so," he admitted. "I've got him as far as my guest room, but except for a bit of nostalgia and a pack of night terrors that would send Attila the Hun running, that's about all I've got out of 'im. I've just got to find some kind of chink in that bloody invincible armor of his."

"I'm sorry, Robbie; this is going to be horrible for you, as well. You might have to dredge up some things in your own past that you'd…rather not."

Lewis winced. "I know. That isn't what's worrying me. He's just so _fragile_, and so determined not to be… if I put a foot wrong, accidentally break through before he's ready… I don't want to think what could happen."

She scooted her chair closer, laying a hand on his arm. "Don't think about that; you can't, you'll drive yourself 'round the bend and never do Hathaway any good, either. Just remember two things: one, he needs you; and two… you've got backup whenever you need it." She squeezed his elbow once for emphasis. "If you want to hear what I think, from what I know of Hathaway… I don't think that armor you see is actually for protection, or developed out of some kind of personal pride. He's still quite young, and you know it, and he knows you know it. I think… God, I hope he doesn't mind my saying all this to you… I think he's afraid to say or do anything that he thinks could diminish him somehow, lose him your respect—"

"Idiot!" Lewis exclaimed, then realizing what he'd said, he quickly added: "Oh, no, not you, ma'am, you're brilliant, that has to be it. There's no other sodding reason why he should practically move in with me and then bottle himself up like a clam when I try to talk to him about his sister. Well, I mean, he talks about her, but in this scary, detached voice that makes me want to shake him until something falls out, like an overstuffed handbag." He stood up and started pacing the office. "What does he think I'm playing at, anyway? That I've got 'im 'round to my place for the company? Oh, my God," he started suddenly. A new suspicion had gotten hold of his gut and was bouncing his insides around like a slinky. "The nightmares. That would be weakness to him, wouldn't it? This kind, anyway; I haven't lost this much sleep since university. He wouldn't want me to see that again – he's bolted."

"Robbie, calm down, you don't know that. Things are quiet here; take the day, go and talk to him. And call if you need anything."

Lewis nodded. "Probably best, before I end up passed out on me desk in a pool of spilled coffee."

Innocent laughed. "Good luck. Robbie, take care. I want my two best detectives back in one piece. And if you ever repeat that to anyone, I shall deny it."

He grinned back at her, throwing his jacket across his shoulders. "Thank you for this, for giving me a place to start. You don't know how much it means to me, to get this right, for him."

She sat there for a few minutes longer after he'd disappeared down the corridor. "And who was there to 'get it right' for you, Robbie?" she murmured.﻿


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the delay, people, but I've been blocked on this one. It's what often happens; I start out with one central idea, and then I run out of plot. But you've sent such nice reviews that I had to try again. Not to worry, I'll finish this somehow.

~-~-~-~-~

Lewis found Hathaway on the upstairs balcony. That wasn't what worried him, really, but the fact that James was standing very near the edge, draped over the railing. And the three empty bottles at his feet. And the mostly empty one in his hand. And looking at him straight on, from behind, Lewis could see the way James' clothes drooped on his frame; the man was looking more string-beanish than ever before.

"Food," he snapped.

James spun around, one foot tripping on the opposite ankle so that he made a sort of pirouette down to the floor. He stared up at Lewis, clearly having trouble focusing his eyes on his partner's face. "You say something?" he queried, frowning in concentration.

"Yes. Food. Nourishment. When was the last time you had some?" After letting James think in silence for nearly ten seconds, Lewis rolled his eyes. "Ask a stupid question... alright, what would you like? I don't cook, I defrost—but I could get us a take-away."

"Not hungry."

"I don't care!" Lewis growled. "Human beings eat, and that includes you. If you make me force-feed you, you will regret it."

"Not my mother," Hathaway sulked.

"Small mercies," Lewis answered coolly. "You can call me anythin' you like, you can fix my picture to the door and fling darts at it for all I care, but you are going to eat something first."

Hathaway staggered to his feet, giving Lewis a filthy look. "Innocent rubbing off on you," he grumbled. "Not good. Might have to strangle you both together."

Lewis snorted. "When—and if—you dry out, maybe. Right now I could lick you with nine fingers tied behind my back."

"Old man," James muttered threateningly, peering into his governor's face, "if I were sober, I'd take that personally."

"If you were sober, we wouldn't be having this ridiculous conversation," Lewis shot back. "And now you're goin' to stop stalling and have something to eat."

"A tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny," James slurred at him.

"Oh, brilliant," Lewis quipped, hauling him up and dragging him toward the kitchen. "Cambridge speaks."

"Aesop, actually. Greek bloke who went about telling stories comparing people to animals who ended up eating or outsmarting each other, sometimes both. Trying to tell people how to live. Bastard."

"I know Aesop's Fables! Coming from Tyneside and giving Oxford and Cambridge a miss does not equate to crawling out from under a rock."

James grinned a bit but quickly subsided. "Always holding out on me," he murmured sadly. "You always know things. You get plans and ideas and never tell me. You're planning what to do with me and not telling me. Aren't you?"

Lewis turned and grasped the young man by the shoulders. "There's an assumption in that question that what happens next is up to me," he pointed out. "Doesn't have to be. There isn't an instruction booklet for this. But you will eat and take proper care of yourself. Not havin' you jetting off to the bloody Caribbean. Or stumbling drunk off the side of my balcony."

"Oh, I can promise you, sir, if I start wandering off the sides of buildings, it won't be an accident."

He was suddenly hauled forward by one hand on his lapel and the other tightly grasping his chin. "And I promise _you_, if you make any more jokes like that one, I'll push you off myself," Lewis whispered.

James looked at him for a moment, startled and hurt, and then wilted as the words made it all the way through the fog of inebriation. "Sorry. Sorry. Can't I just go to sleep now?"

"Soon. I'm gettin' something in your stomach, if it's only chicken soup."

Fortunately for both of them, there was chicken soup, and after one or two painful sips, James gulped down the rest as if he hadn't eaten in days, which Lewis thought he probably hadn't. He watched, amused, as James suddenly dropped the spoon and stared at the empty bowl in amazement. " 'Sgone," he said wonderingly.

"It's in your stomach, where it belongs," Lewis pointed out. "And now you're going to bed, where you belong."

"Not tired." Lewis sighed to himself. He didn't enjoy seeing James sulk like a child deprived of a sweet. As much time as he'd spent with the real James Hathaway, he hadn't been able to help – just slightly – buying into the Wunderkind image propounded by the rest of the force. Watching that mind and those instincts rev up like a raceway motor and start jetting off together like a well-oiled machine always left him a little bit in awe. It was why he kept telling himself how young James was and how much he still had to learn; the inspector's years of experience had honed some instincts James still hadn't quite found in himself yet, and it was the only way to work with the man and avoid even the occasional inferiority complex. He wasn't feeling like the old nag put out to pasture right now, but it was just as bad, if not worse, on the other end of the spectrum. Even when James was angry or hurt or scared, he'd always towed himself back in like a ship out of the night, and somehow they'd worked it out. This was nothing like any of those times; James was lost, and Lewis hated it.

"Go to bed anyway," he muttered. "It'll be tomorrow before you know it."

Hathaway snorted quietly. "What do I want it to be tomorrow for?"

Lewis slapped him gently upside the head. "Because this'll be yesterday."

~-~-~-~-~-~

The nightmares were much worse this time. Lewis knew from the first hoarse yell that sleep was a lost cause, and so he spent the better part of the night in what was now James' room, shaking him, grabbing for flailing limbs and speaking to him in a soft, reassuring tone that reflected nothing of the desperation he felt. Hours went by; James would calm for a minute here and there, but it was never restful, and he never woke. Both men were trembling and exhausted by the time the horrors subsided, shortly after daybreak.

Lewis barely made it to his own bed before he collapsed. Body, mind, heart…he had nothing left. He had to think of something else before this killed both of them. His brain had hardly started churning before it gave up and relaxed in sleep.


End file.
